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THE BALLAD OF 
MANILA BAY 

AND other' verses 



BY 
HORACE SPENCER FISKE 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



CHICAGO 

THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO PRESS 

1900 



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61417 



COPYRIGHT 1900 
BY HORACE SPENCER FISKE 



TO EDWARD DOWDEN 

AS 
A SLIGHT RECOGNITION OF HIS HOSPITALITY AND HELP 



PREFACE 



'T^HE writer's thanks are due to the editors of 
the Century Magazine, the Brush and Pencil, 
and the Midland Monthly for their courtesy in allow- 
ing the use of copyrighted contributions ; and his 
especial thanks are due to Dr. Newell Dwight Hillis 
for his sympathetic criticism. 

He would also gratefully acknowledge the gener- 
ous courtesy of Daniel Chester French in permitting 
the use, as illustrations, of his remarkable '' Dewey 
Medal " and *' Death and the Sculptor;" and he is 
further indebted to Harper and Brothers for an illus- 
tration from Harper's Weekly, and to Director A. 
A. Stagg and Mr. D. P. Trude of the University 
of Chicago, for the use of photographs. 



CONTENTS 



War Verse 

The Ballad of Manila Bay 17 

The Charge of San Juan 23 

The Dash of Cervera 27 

"Home Again" 28 



College Verse 

The Ballad of the Pigskin 35 

The Genius of Football 41 

The Hull Gateway 43 

A Song of the Midway Tars .44 

Alma Mater 46 

Upon the Diamond 49 

To a Professor of Greek 52 

Toboggan Song 54 

The College Mother 56 

Old Gold and Cardinal 57 

To the P'irst President of the College 61 

The Cry of the High Hurdlers 62 

To Milton's Mulberry Tree 64 

In King's College Chapel 65 

May Morning on Magdalen Tower 66 

" Magnus Thomas Clusius Oxoniensis " 67 



Chicago Verse 

Chicago 71 

From a City Roof 72 

April from a Corner of the Columbian Museum ... 74 

The Home Express 75 

La Rabida . . . ' 78 

Winter's Windiest Corner 79 

A Midnight Lake Whistle 81 

A Midway Dash 82 

The Genius of Hull House 84 

A Song of Labor 85 

Aspiration 86 

A Song of Brotherhood 87 

Miscellaneous Verse 

A Night Song of the Camp 91 

Kate Shelley 93 

Skaters' Song at Night 98 

Csesar, My Cat 99 

Olympian Victors loi 

The Cycler's Song 103 

A Woman of the Old School 104 

Newell Dwight Hillis 105 

A Fisherman 106 

Destiny 107 

'' Sally in Our Alley " 108 

Ancestral Worship 109 

Charles Lamb's Beaumont and Fletcher II 

St. George's in the East . . . iii 

To Mr. Gladstone 112 

Alloway Kirk 113 

Saeva Indignatio 114 



Miscellaneous Verse — Continued 

The Strolling Player 115 

P>om the Dome of St. Paul's 116 

To Shelley's Sophocles 117 

The "Elegy" Churchyard 118 

At Kenilworth .119 

The Martyr's Stake 120 

In the Orchard-Garden at Dove Cottage 121 

A Wordsworth Memorial 122 

Pictures 123 



Sonnets on Sculpture 

The Columbian Quadriga 127 

The Statue of the Republic 129 

The Liberator .... 130 

The Lake-Front Volunteer 131 

Despair 132 

The Ugly Duckling 133 

The Lowell Memorial 134 

The Scott Memorial 135 

The Lion of Lucerne 136 

Ganymede to his Eagle 137 

The Bronze Horses of St. Mark's 138 

The Hermes at Olympia 139 

Death and the Sculptor 141 



A Trio of Dogs 

To Lord Randolph Churchill 145 

A Modern Neptune 146 

To an American Rab 147 



A Trinity of Children 

A Young Philosopher 151 

Kissing the Rose 153 

Harold the King 155 



Sonnets on Shakspere 

From Anne Hathaway's Cottage 159 

The Two Roses 160 

Shakspere's Will 161 

Shylock to Salarino 162 

King Richard at Bosworth Field 163 

Antony as an Orator 164 

Brutus in his Tent at Sardis 165 

Lady Macbeth in Sleep 166 

Macbeth on His Wife's Death 167 

Othello's Message to the Venetian State 168 

King Lear on the Heath 169 

Prospero on his Magical Show 170 

Hamlet in the Churchyard 171 

The King's Jester 172 

The Death of Hamlet 173 

"To-day for Me, To-morrow Death for You" .... 174 



Notes 177 



ILLUSTRATIONS 



Frontispiece — Night Entrance into Manila Bay 

Admiral Dewey 17 

The Ideal American Sailor 22 

A. A. Stagg 34 

A Thanksgiving Game 36 

The Genius of Football 40 

The Hull Gateway 42 

Herschberger and Kennedy 48 

A. L. Chapin 60 

The Columbian Quadriga 126 

The Statue of the Republic 128 

Death and the Sculptor 140 

A Young Philosopher 150 

Kissing the Rose 152 

Harold the King i54 



WAR VERSE 




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THE "BALLAD OF MANILA "BAY 

You must capture vessels or destroy them. Use utmost en- 
deavors. — President McKinley to Commodore Dewey 

And men by a million hearth-fires shall tell of Manila 
Bay — 
How Dewey swept past the forts at night, 
And struck the Dons in the flushing light, 
And for freedom won the day. 

In Hongkong harbor, far away, beyond the Philip- 
pines, 

The ^'Acting Admiral" held his ships — no stauncher 
sea-machines ; 

And the '' jackies" grumbled and fumed and swore at 
the government's slow delay, 

17 



When the enemy lay so very near in the fair Manila 

Bay. 
Till the President spoke beneath the waves — e'en hail 

the world around — 
And the Commodore caught with eager ear the deep 

electric sound. 

Then he sailed away through the China Sea for the 

island of Luzon, 
And he hunted hard in Subig Bay for the nose of a 

Spanish Don; 
And at midnight black his ships held off from their 

voyage to the South, 
For before them lay the battery lights and Manila's 

yawning mouth — 
The battery guns that shoot to death and the harbor's 

sunken mines. 
The swift torpedo's deadly rush and the gunboats' 

bristling lines. 

But he darkened his ships and steamed ahead, past 

the grim Corregidor, 
Till the showering sparks sent a signal high to the 

forts along the shore ; 
Yet on he went — like the march of Fate — while Death 

kept his watch below — 
And the sailors' souls were stretched and taut for a 

sight of their hidden foe. 

18 



The dawn flashed up from out the black, and through 

the early light 
Behind the arsenal rose the hills — the background of 

the fight ; 
And the Commodore thought of old Vermont — the 

green hills of his home, 
x\nd the little town of his boyhood hopes, ere his feet 

began to roam ; 
And the battery smoke, to memory's eye, rose slow as 

morning mist 
That whitened the old home valley, by the sunlight 

yet unkissed. 

But right before growled the Spanish ships, and the 
loud Cavite guns, 

And his soul went out in memory of the nation's 
slaughtered sons. 

And deep in the breasts of the sailors, at sound of the 
forts of Spain, 

Like an answering echo throbbed the cry: '* Remem- 
ber, remember the Maine ! " 

Till a mighty, ringing cheer arose, repeated from ship 
to ship. 

And the hearts of the gunners leaped in joy to let the 
war-dogs slip. 

But though the Spaniards shot and shelled with boom 
and rifle crack, 

19 



And the Yankee gunners held their fire and waited on 

the rack ; 
From the flagship's silent course nor turret nor spon- 

son spouted flame, 
And ^^ save your powder for closer range " was the only 

word that came — 
When off the Baltimore's steady prow a black mud-. 

geyser sprang, 
And "the mines!" "the mines!" in a general cry, 

through the startled ship-crews rang. 

Yet still straight on the Commodore moved for the 
Spanish admiral's ship, 

And every sailor knew right well that the Spanish flag 
would dip. 

Suddenly burst a thunderous roar from the Olympia's 
port-side guns; 

The smoke-fog rose — they roared again — they re- 
membered the nation's sons. 

Through the Spanish flagship tore the shells along 
the water line, 

And everywhere the flames shot out their flaring fatal 
sign. 

In fiery procession followed fast five ships of the 

Yankee line. 
As the Commodore swung his starboard guns for a 

punishment more condign. 

20 



Five times past the flaming fleet and the belching 

battery smoke — 
And every time he closer swept, and hit with a heavier 

stroke. 
And when from the thickening powder-smoke he 

rested in the sun, 
To view his loss and count his dead — he found not 



But the Spanish Dons, as he cleared the smoke, 

thought a coward ran away. 
And split their throats in a jubilant cheer that echoed 

down the Bay. 
Yet the Commodore only smiled and said: ''We 

haven't begun to fight;" 
And in two short hours the Spaniards learned that 

the Commodore was right — 
For their ships went down, or their ships burned up 

like bonfires on the Bay ; 
And the batteries shut their blackened throats, and 

the i\dmiral ran away. 

And over the crumbling Spanish forts and the island 
by the sea, 

Instead of the Spaniards' jaundiced flag the Stars and 
Stripes flew free — 

The Stars and Stripes that float on high for liberty- 
loving men — 

21 



Stripes for their tyrant-wrongers, and stars for their 

darkened ken. 
And the world rejoiced with a sudden joy for the 

swift and awful blow 
That fell like a righteous thunderbolt on the Cuban's 

ruthless foe. 

And men by a million hearth- fires shall tell of Manila 
Bay — 
How Dewey swept past the forts at nighty 
And struck the Dons in the flushing light, 
And for freedom won the day. 



22 



THE CHARGE OF SAN JUAN 

If yon don't wish to go forward, let my men pass. 

Colonel Roosevelt 



At San Juan river down the trail, in bush or choking 

grass, 
Lay regiments of soldiers in a hot, disordered mass. 
To the left the hills that hide the sea; to the right 

the hills arise; 
And straight in front frown hard and high the hills of 

sacrifice — 
The hills that poured from yellow pits a steady fire of 

death, 
And turned the soldier's waiting to a struggling gasp 

for breath. 

There in the golden sunlight waved a mile of forest 

green. 
And blue and red on the hill-tops slept the bungalows 

serene ; 
While off toward Santiago ran the barracks' gleaming 

white. 
And the merciful flags of the Red Cross fluttered soft 

to the soldier's sight. 

23 



But up above the rifle-pits, clear-cut against the sky, 
Like an oriental temple, stood the house where men 
must die. 

An hour they lay on their rifles hot, and prayed for 
the word ^* advance," 

For the sun was worse than an enemy and the peril 
of mischance ; 

The twisting shrapnel burst about in a shrieking, piti- 
less dirge, 

And the hissing Mausers cut the grass as a steel prow 
cuts the surge ; 

And out from mysterious tree-tops close, behind in- 
visible smoke. 

The guerrilla's waspish bullet in a deadly humming 
spoke. 

Then men in line sprang forward — hit, and sank 

again with a groan, 
Or clinging to shoulder, torn and red, rolled over 

without a moan ; 
And back of the lines the stewards drew the wounded 

to the streams 
And laid them in rows on the muddy banks, with 

their feet where the water gleams ; 
And up and down the mounted aides went splashing 

through the fords, 
Till they fell from their horses, limp and dead, as if 

cut by unseen swords. 

24 



Suddenly broke from the wooded line, behind the 

Ninth's array, 
A colonel high on horseback, riding rough to save 

the day. 
His wide sombrero flew a flag of twisted polka-dot. 
And straight behind, it floated blue — a guidon for a 

shot. 
And he swung his hat as he shouted out to the men 

amid the grass : 
"If you fellows won't go forward now, just let my own 

men pass ! " 

But those black soldiers, prostrate, sprang like hounds 

upon a hunt. 
And charged with the Rough Riders for the thickest 

battle-brunt. 
And together they went forward — black and brown 

and army blue — 
They, the scattered and impeded — they, the strong 

and desperate few — 
Up the steep and sunny hillside, through the grasses 

sharp and tall, 
Creeping on with slipping footsteps, smitten low with 

Spanish ball. 

Still the blue line mounted surely, moving like a rising 

tide. 
Though the hill-crest crackled fiercely with the flame 

of Spanish pride. 

25 



Toward the top the fragments gathered for a sudden 
burst of speed, 

And the Spaniards saw before them fighters that could 
fight indeed ; 

For they rose against the sky-line — Spaniards pois- 
ing swift for flight — 

Poured one final volley hotly, and dashed downward 
out of sight. 

And there on the frowning ranch-house roof, high- 
flung 'gainst the tropic sky, 

Humanity's hope they lifted up with a far-heard jubi- 
lant cry ; 

And among the enemy's cartridges, in the soft earth 
of the pits. 

They fixed the flags of the cavalry that fights but never 
submits ; 

While over the valley toward the sea, ashine in the 
southern sun, 

They saw the walls of the city that would soon be 
fully won. 

And of Roosevelfs Rough Riders the fame grows 
never old — 
For they climbed the hills of San Juan steep, 
And won the tops with a sudden sweep, 
In the love of freedoi7i bold. 



26 



THE DASH OF CERyERA 

In close-locked waters of the Cuban bay, 

His fiery-hearted ships grown tame with fear, 
His strong-voiced sailors lifting now no cheer, 

He grimly waits the dawning of the day. 

For just beyond, in swift and fell array, 

Each war-dog crouching low with listening ear 
Still hopes his enemv is venturing near. 

And gathers all his strength to tear his prey. 

Yet never admiral with steadier face 

Sailed out to greet his fate, already known ; 

Nor ran with swifter courage in the race 

That roared with cannon-shot and shook a throne 

He looked on Death as clad in sudden grace 

And went to meet her in her chosen place. 



27 



"HOME AGAIN" 

A Tale of Blue and Gray 

For US whose lives no battle sounds incite ; 

Who walk memorial halls and only hear 
The echoes of a far-off clamorous fight ; 

Who never greeted Death with sudden cheer, 
Nor felt the darkness falling on the light; 

For hearts like ours, untouched by hostile gun 
To strenuous action, rise memorial stones — 

Not for the dead, whose deeds are ever done, 
Whose virtues sit on undisputed thrones. 

And shine with flashing crowns themselves have won. 

I 

Behind the breastworks slept a brotherhood 
In heavy sleep, before the battle-morn ; 

A southward mile, behind the blackened wood, 
The enemy low-couched amid the corn ; 

And over all, on guard, the great moon stood. 

The sentineFs slow pace crept softly by ; 

Stopped short; his musket to his shoulder flashed ; 

28 



His lips swift parted for a sudden cry — 

And yet he stands at pause, as if abashed 
By some unflinching and superior eye. 

From out the whiteness girt with Southern pine 
A stern gray figure stepped in martial stride, 

Unarmed, and gazing straight adown the line 
Of hostile Union tents ; nor turned aside ; 

Nor deigned to marveling sentinel a sign. 

His hand an open letter lightly bore. 

And as he brushed a roadside bush, it fell ; 

The whispered guards, their silent tents before, 
His opened but unseeing eyes marked well — 

His fresh-scarred cheek that reddened valor wore. 

In sleep, this solitary soldier crossed 

Two regimental fronts; then slow returned. 

And halted as in meditation lost ; 

His beard was black ; his deep eyes darker burned ; 

Two fingers gone plain-marked the battle's cost. 

A hopeless sigh this gray-clad captain drew; 

Who knows but that he dreamed of wife and 
home ? 
About him stood his enemies in blue. 

Their bayonets glinting like the broken foam ; 
And o'er them all the white moon prayed anew. 

29 



Upon a thought the captain stood upright, 

And through the Northern circle freely passed; 

His eyes straight on, yet still bereft of sight ; 

His measured steps bent campward, striding fast 

To wooded darkness through the glade's still light. 

They wondering watched him pass beyond their ken ; 

Then from the letter learned his regiment ; 
'Twas written by his sick wife's laboring pen, 

And these the final words her sad heart sent : 
'*Our God, I feel, will bring you home again." 

II 

The dawn-light touched the tents with pearl-like 
gray ; 

Slow rolled the yellow sun above the line ; 
Then flashed from out the wood in grim array 

Ten thousand bayonets in the sunlight shine ; 
And blood-red battle sprang to meet the day. 

The stubborn line stood fast before the blue — 
All save the Alabama Tenth — whose flag 

Went forward as the battle's fierceness grew ; 
AVhen suddenly the floating colors drag 

Among the dead, and then are lost to view. 

But with a shout a bearded captain sprang 
To snatch the colors, lifting them on high — 

30 



And to his wavering soldiers '* forward " rang. 

Alas, alas ! it was his farewell cry; 
Three bullets in the air his death-song sang. 

Ill 

Now range the Northern victors o'er the field ; 

And stretched beside a flag a captain lay ; 
His hand the staff unwilling yet to yield, 

His cheek fresh-scarred, two fingers shot away — 
The last night's wandering captain lay revealed. 

Those Northern brothers in a separate grave 
This flag-wrapt hero laid to slumbers deep. 

An inscribed headstone showing him how brave ; 
And sent the letter, lost in helpless sleep. 

To her whose love the selfsame letter gave. 

But hope deferred, slow-crushing to despair. 

Her prayerful heart had stilled to sudden peace ; 

And two high souls, in some diviner air. 

Were " home again," where breaking sorrows cease. 

And those who wait are crowned with those who dare. 



31 



COLLEGE VERSE 




A. A. STAGG 



THE BALLAD OF THE PIGSKIN 

To A. A. Stagg 

When the crowd has cheered the hostile teams and 
the band has played its best, 

And roaring rooters warmed the lungs within the 
coldest breast ; 

When hat and cane and flag and feet have marked 
each rolling shout, 

And the coin has told its little tale and the whistle 
sounded out — 

Then the untried slippery pigskin lies at rest upon the 
ground, 

And silence wraps the people with expectancy pro- 
found. 



O the kick off and the tackle and the sudden- footed 
punt, 
And the stillness of the players on a down ; 
And the plunging and the lunging in the swaying 
battle's brunt, 
And the megaphonic cries of town and gown! 



35 



Now the ball comes floating downward toward the 
full-back's opening arms, 

And he hugs it for a zigzag shoot through a host of 
threatened harms ; 

But the clutches of the tackle snap him hard upon 
the earth, 

And the fumbled ball goes bobbing like a thing of 
mock and mirth ; 

Till the center-rush bends motionless above the rest- 
ing sphere, 

And the fronting lines stand statuesque in hidden 
hope and fear. 

Then the mighty mingled scrimmage works its arms 

and legs and feet. 
Heaping heads and twisted bodies in a chaos most 

complete ; 
But five yards is a journey for a head that isn't stone, . 
And harder than a wooden wall is a wall of human 

bone; 
So the bleachers lift their megaphones to breathe a 

bracing cheer. 
And the rooters' ''Hold 'em," "Hold 'em," smites 

the player's anxious ear. 

Then out from the mass of strugglers, like a comet 

from its course. 
Shoots a runner on a tangent, with a catapultic force ; 

37 



And the field spreads fair before him as the path to 

Paradise, 
And his soul leaps up to win it at the dearest sacrifice ; 
For he hears the yelling people and a mighty stride 

behind, 
And he hopes to live forever in the football heart 

enshrined. 

But his striding hot pursuer on the five-yard jerks 

him down, 
And his hope burns low within him as he clutches for 

renown ; 
Yet he twists and squirms and struggles 'mid the 

trumpets' blare and blast. 
And the touchdown with his nerveless hands he 

reaches at the last ; 
And his head whirls like a pin-wheel and his eyes, 

bewildered, close. 
As the chorus of the people lifts his name above his 

foes. 

O the touchdown and the goal-kick and the sudden- 
footed punt ^ 
And the stillness of the player's on a down ; 
And the plunging and the lunging in the szvaying 
battle' s brunt, 
And the megaphonic cries of town and gown I 



3« 



THE GENIUS OF FOOTBALL 

"Bill of Oriel," Oxford 

Though born abroad, thou spirit of the sphere, 
'Mid cloistered shadows of old Oxford walls 
That lift their grayness round those ancient halls, 

We recognize thy hovering presence here. 

Thy gamy eye looks out with wicked leer ; 

Those sinewy legs were bent for punting balls, 
And clutching fists for tackling men to falls ; 

Thy face pugnacious starts a sudden fear. 

Thou'rt '' in " the game for every blessed play. 
From soaring kick-off, center plunge, to goal. 
Delighting in the scrimmage and the fray ; 

And whether keeping guard beside the pole 
Or dashing round the ends to win the day, 
Thou art of every game the hustling soul. 



41 



THE HULL GATEWAY 

University of Chicago 

No porter's lodge along the Oxford High 
On proctor-shadowed student from his rouse 
So grimly frowned as thou ; nor blackened boughs 

On Dante losing, hopeless, earth and sky. 

Thy crocket-crawlers scare the helpless eye ; 

Thine anguished corbels twist their human brows ; 
Thy dragon kneelers bend to wicked vows ; 

And high-perched finials threat the passer-by. 

And yet through such as thou the race hath passed 
To freedom — superstition's dreadful gate 
liath oped upon the courts of truth at last ; 

Nor all the fears of an imagined fate, 
Nor all the goblin crew of error vast 

Can shut the mind from learning's fair estate. 



43 



A SONG OF THE MIDIVAY TARS 

Music : The Midshipmite 

'Twas in ninety-two, in an autumn light, 

Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! 
When Doctor Harper hove in sight, 
And shoved out his anchor with keen delight. 

Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! 
He had a small but gallant crew; 
They'd manned the ropes when the winds blew, blew ; 
And they were a brave and a favored few. 

Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! 

Chorus — Here's a deep-sea song, and a true, true 
song; 
Gaily, lads, now let her go ! 
For we drink to-night 
To the Captain's might. 
Singing, '' Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! " 

The ship's grown bigger, and so has her crew; 

Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! 
For she has a world of work to do — 



44 



To cruise round the earth for me and you. 

Go it Chicago, yo ho ! 
The Captain has a right good eye ; 
He steers by the stars in the changeless sky ; 
And he flies the maroon away up high. 

Go it Chicsigo, yo ho ! 

From young Chicago she sets sail ; 

Go it Chicsigo, yo ho ! 
She feels old Michigan's favoring gale, 
And she greets the future, *^ Hail, all hail ! " 

Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! 
The Varsity ship sails every sea ; 
She touches at the port of each countree ; 
And she's bound for truth and eternity. 

Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! 

Chorus — Here's a deep-sea song, and a true, true 
song; 
Gaily, lads, now let her go ! 
For we drink to-night 
To the Captain's might, 
Singing, '' Go it Chica^^, yo ho ! " 



45 



/ILMJ MATER 

College Color : Gold 

Thou art our true love, believe us, 
Mother that ne'er did deceive us — 

x\h, joy to be ever thine ! 
Mother of arts and aspiring, 

Cherishing ever 
Sons that have richest desiring, 
Daughters that kneel at thy shrine. 

Show us the gold of thy mintage. 
Mother — and wine of thy vintage 
Grant us to drink in thy name ! 
Mother of wealth and rejoicing, 

Blessing forever 
Sons that thy praises are voicing. 
Daughters that nourish thy fame. 



46 



HERSCHBERGER AND KENNEDY 



UPON THE DIAMOND 

Marshall Field, Chicago 

In vivid May and rustling June 
When breeze's breath is like a tune^ 
O where can life be free? 

Where swings the bat, 

Where shoots the ball, 

Where rings the umpire's sudden call, 

And curve and catch must settle all — 
Upon the diamond. 

The sunlight pours a golden flood across the grassy 

field, 
As up against a cloudless sky the grand-stand throws 

its shield ; 
The umpire tosses out the ball, the batter takes his 

stand ; 
The catcher walks a long ways back, the pitcher twirls 

his hand. 
And the new white sphere goes twisting like a bullet 

from a gun. 
And the drifting crowds behind the ropes settle down 

to see the fun. 



49 



Three times the batter hits the air in lieu of the whirl- 
ing ball, 

And takes his seat with a heavy look at the umpire's 
final call ; 

The second pounds a liner straight, that beats him to 
the base ; 

The third sends up a flier that seems made for climbing 
space — 

Yet the center softly takes it in without the least 
distress. 

And the hopeful " ins " have a whitewashed stone on 
the road to hard success. 

Then the ^' outs " use all their brain power to find the 

little curve, 
And they learn that this is a little thing that can't be 

found by nerve ; 
For the sullen ball and the angry bat don't seem 

inclined to meet, 
And never an eager batter has a chance to use his 

feet. 
So the sides keep swinging back and forth, with now 

and then a hit. 
But without a single fought-for score to cither's 

benefit. 

Then the ninth — it opens hotly with a triple-bagger 
crack, 

50 



And the runner makes the bases like a racer round 
the track ; 

Till the catcher's fumble brings him in amid . the 
roaring cheers, 

And the hopes of half the people change to soul- 
depressing fears ; 

For the aliens have a tally safe and the home team 
have an O, 

And only half an innings left to beat the foreign foe. 

Now two are out ; the third leads off with a dainty 

little "bunt," 
And the hardest hitter plants his feet to meet the 

battle's brunt. 
Lo, through the sky and over the fence the ball goes 

climbing fast, 
While the pair of runners touch the plate amid the 

blare and blast ; 
And the people, standing, lift his praise on the wave 

of a mighty cheer. 
As the jubilant team on their shoulders bear the 

winner of the year ! 



51 



TO A PROFESSOR OF GREEK 

On the Fortieth Year of his Teaching 

Of old sat thunder-hurling Zeus aloft, 

And scanned from far Olympus white 
The gathered world, rimmed with Aegean soft ; 

And now he pondered long on human right, 
And on the right divine, how long and oft ! 

*' These striving millions — who shall teach them 
Right ?'^ 

So thought that thunder-hurling god above ; 
'* The rights of men, the law divine, that light 

That shineth from the depths of lasting love. 
And beacons aye to Truth's eternal height." 

''I'll send a teacher, filled with love and law; 

And in him keep fair wisdom's spirit-voice; 
And ne'er from him faith's shining star withdraw : 

Till men shall know themselves, and e'en rejoice 
In him who all their needs and fears foresaw." 

Then walked abroad in Athens' market place 
A philosophic man clad all in strength ; 

52 



He touched the scales of human pride and race, 

And eyes, e'er blinded, saw Truth's face at length 
Socratic plainness changed to saving grace. 



So came among us, four decades ago, 

A teacher, born of faith and hope and will ; 

A Greek in taste, to hollowness a foe ; 
In front, a Zeus ; in purpose to fulfil, 

A man, and all aglow with zeal to know. 

The wave-like verse of Homer rolling long, 

Socratic sense, idyllic love aflame, 
Pindaric uplift, and the iron song 

Of tragedy, his day's delight became. 
And kept his soul and effort strong. 

And who that sat within the old Greek-room, 
And caught the keenness of that critic eye. 

And felt the crucial question's coming doom, 
Did not prefer a prayer to Zeus on high. 

And ^' flunk " with shaking knees amid the gloom ? 

And so the olive and the laurel bough 

Ne'er wreathed for truer victor in the race 

Of life's great game ; nor Periclean brow 
E'er wore a truer or a finer grace 

Than towering, swift-eyed '^ Zeus " is wearing now. 

53 



TOBOGGAN SONG 

Written for a College Club 

Music : Fra Diavolo 

To-night, how crisp the air; 

How scintillates the star- dust! 
What sport so rich and rare, 

What sport to rub off mind-rust! 

Refrain — Hurrah! Hurrah! 

To-night, how crisp the air! 

Chorus — Hurrah! Hurrah! To-night how crisp the 

air! 
Og-tobog-to, to-bogganing, 
Og-tobog-to, to-bogganing, 
Og-tobog-to, to-bogganing, 
To-night how crisp the air! 

You'll hear the bogs, the bogs, the bogs, 

the b-b-b-b-b-b-bogs ; 
Ha! Observatory sliding, — 
Shooting down the hill. 

54 



To shoot, to dart, to glide, 
Down Astronomic hill-side ; 
To feel the rhythmic ride, 
Doth lift a merry flood-tide. 
Chorus 

It fills us with a song. 

Doth this toboggan sliding ; 

Come, bear the song along. 
The frosty stars are guiding. 

Chorus 

Then be a passenyVz/r 

On this toboggan night train ; 
Be blithe, be debonair, 

Be subject now to joy's reign! 

Chorus 

Brave lads and lassies fair, 
There's poetry in living ; 

Come, banish cloudy care. 
In sliding's no misgiving. 

Refrain— Hurrah i Hurrah ! 

To-night, how crisp the air ! 



55 



THE COLLEGE MOTHER 

Upon the threshold of the future stands 
The College Mother, casting yearning eyes 
Behind her where the past in fruitage lies, 

And seeking for her sons in many lands. 

Each year of fifty has she raised her hands 

In blessing on her sons grown strong and wise. 
Their forward-looking faces toward the skies. 

Their steady hearts still echoing her commands. 

And while she follows them with tender gaze 
Adown the vista of the vanished years. 

She stretches forth her hands to younger days, — 
Concealing all her sweet memorial tears ' 

From sons and daughters eager for her bays. 
And stirred with sounds of battle in their ears. 



56 



OLD GOLD AND CARDINAL 

Dedicated to the members of a college class 
With apologies to the author of " Yellow and Blue " 

Sing to the colors of sun and of wine ; 

Hurrah for the Golden and Red ! 
Golden the nuggets of Tornia's mine, 

And fit for a sovereign's head ; 
Golden the sun as he dips in the wave, 
And red is the glow of Mars' planet brave. 

Hail ! 
Hail to the colors of sun and of wine ; 

Hurrah for the Golden and Red ! 

Red is the rose lifting fair her round face, 

A kiss coming soft from the South ; 
Red was the wine of the Lesbian race 

That tinted the rosiest mouth ; 
Red is the light gleaming out in the night 
To flash its high scorn at old ocean's might. 

Hail! 
Hail to the colors of sun and of wine ; 

Hurrah for the Golden and Red ! 



57 



Here's to the college by whom we swear ; 

And here's to the hearts she has led ! 
Here's to the girl with the golden hair 

And cheeks so bewitchingly red ! 
Rich sun and red Mars together combine 
To tell us life's joys should e'er intertwine. 

Hail! 
Hail to the colors of sun and of wine ; 
Hurrah for the Golden and Red ! 



5« 




A. L. CHAPIN 
First President of Beloit College 



By Lor ado Taft 



TO THE FIRST PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE 

Read at the Semi-Centennial of Beloit College 

Unveiled in marble, touched by master hand 

To Greek-like calmness, look forever now 

Upon thy college — blessing with thy brow 
Of benediction what thyself hadst planned. 
Through six-and-thirty years thy hope far spanned 

The college future, and thy prayerful vow 

Of love and lifelong labor did endow 
Her life with faith and strenuous command. 
Thy careful strength stood round her like a shield ; 

Thy balanced brain kept knowledge as her goal ; 
And with thine upward finger on the field 

Of stars, thy spirit traced as on a scroll 
The thought divine that softly lay revealed, 

And led her by the greatness of thy soul. 



61 



THE CRY OF THE HIGH HURDLERS 

At a Ravenswood meet three runners were a tie over the last 

hurdle 

With bodies bowed, with breath drawn in, 

We're waiting for the sound; 
Our hot hearts shake the start to make 

And leave the clinging ground. 

We're coming, coming, coming, like the old Olympics 
fleet, 
For we've sworn to smash the record in the race; 
And we're leaping, leaping, leaping, like the hunter:^ 
in a chase. 
And we spurn the heavy ground with flashing feet. 

The pistol cracks ; we burst our bounds. 

We're working arms and feet ; 
Our heads go back as on the track 

We stretch fresh racers fleet. 

The hurdles lift their menace high 

Like walls to break our flight ; 
We mount the air, a hidden stair. 

And shoot their easy height. 

62 



And now we feel the final pull — 

A triple struggle hot ; 
We catch the cries, we feel the eyes, 

And we "hit 'er up" a jot. 

We spurt as one, we rise abreast. 

Like horses o'er a hedge; 
We hear the cry: ''A tie, a tie !" 

We'll drink to each a pledge. 

We're coming, coming, coming, like the old Olympics 
fleet, 
For we've sworn to smash the record in the race; 
And we're leaping, leaping, leaping, like the hunters 
in a chase^ 
And we spurn the heavy ground with flashing feet. 



63 



TO MILTON'S MULBERRY TREE 

In the Garden of Christ's College, Cambridge, England 

O propped and breaking tree in that sweet peace 

Of Christ's ! From Milton's hand men fain would 
think 

Thy earliest life upsprang — a living link 
With those melodious days whose songs increase 
In sweetness with the years. For him release 

From noisy battle came not ; from the brink 

Of civil slaughter conscience could not shrink 
To win for self alone a soft surcease ; 
And doomed to night forever, still he sang, 

His vision kindling at the throne of God. 
Like thy great planter, thou hast felt the pang 

Of sorrow — Winter smites thee with his rod; 
Yet still thou drink'st the sunlight, and dost hang 

Thy leaves for nightingales, where once he trod. 



64 



IN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL 

Cambridge, England, 

Where, according to tradition, Cromwell's men once stabled their 

horses 

'Neath those high towers and fretted battlements 
I walked and sat within — where carved in stone 
I saw the arms of kings, the rose full-blown, 

The chained portcullis, and the crown. My sense. 

Borne backward to the times of turbulence. 
Heard now no more the organ's swelling tone. 
But to the solemn air a sound unknown — 

The clang of hoofs in that magnificence. 

When on my dreaming eye there strangely fell. 
Through all the glories of that lucent tide, 

A sudden shadow to unloose the spell ; 

And from the vaulted dimness floated wide 

The white wings of a dove — as if to dwell 
In light and music, Peace were glorified. 



65 



MAY MORNING ON MAGDALEN TOWER 

Oxford 

The tender morning light is touching thee 

O tower; thy stony feet the people throng; 

The Cherwell wooes thee with its winding song, 
And eager whispers breathe from every tree. 
For thy stern heart with lofty song will be 

Soon broken — pouring on the world a strong 

Exultant psalm to Him who smote the wrong 
And stirred in men unceasing jubilee. 
And now we drink thy Latin music deep 

That floods the fragrant air with golden tone, 
Down dropping on a world still lost in sleep; 

The browsing deer their shyness now disown, 
Along the walks the waters softly creep. 

And Addison's sweet spirit seems not flown. 



66 



"MAGNUS THOMAS CLUSIUS OXONJENSJS" 

Inscribed on "Great Tom," Oxford, England, 1680 

O mighty curfew-ringer — clanging slow 

Thy century of strokes that nightly close 

All college portals — calling to repose 
The wearied day that is yet loth to go ! 
What fateful centuries of weal and woe 

Since first thy vibrant, deep-toned voice arose ; 

How many a royal knell thou'st rung for those 
Who drank the people's life, thou canst not know! 
In ears of early greatness thou hast swung 

Thy quickening message; in the prayerful heart 
Thy voice hath been a prayer; and thou hast rung 

To many a deadened conscience, life; thou art 
To reveling youth another reveling tongue, 

And age doth find in thee its counterpart. 



67 



CHICAGO VERSE 



CHICAGO 

Erect, commanding, like a goddess born. 

With strength and beauty glowing in her face 

And all her stately form attired in grace, 
She stands beside her lake to greet the morn. 
Behind her, rustling leaves of yellow corn 

That whisper richest comfort to the race ; 

And 'neath her gaze, the waters' purple space 
A thousand flashing sails with light adorn. 
Still in her sight shine visions of the fair — 

Immortal Art illuming human ill, 
And far-eyed Science blessing with her care ; 

While through her soul, in purpose to fulfil, 
And reach her highest hope beyond compare. 

Throbs deep and strong the strenuous cry : " I will." 



71 



FROM A CITY ROOF 

South Park, Chicago 

On the deck of my big night steamer, aloft in my low 
sea-chair, 

Wrapped round with a southern softness and breath- 
ing a sweet sea air, 

I sail of a summer evening beneath a starry sky, 

And wonder long at the beauty that never passes by. 

For I see on the far-off Temple a crown of softened 

light 
That rests like a golden glory on the city in its 

. might ; 
And off at the harbor's entrance, where the piers push 

long and dark. 
The red and yellow beacon flashes out its shining 

mark. 

And down past the lone Rabida, below the reddened 

cloud, 
Flame up the leaping torches where the ranks of labor 

crowd ; 

72 



Till my eye goes wandering lakeward where the con- 
stellations move 

Of the hidden ships that pass and their pilot's eye 
approve. 

The Midway's glittering pageant, reaching down from 
park to park, 

Shoots a thousand cycle-signals through the scintil- 
lating dark ; 

And the studious windows shining in the Varsity's 
looming walls 

Mark off in mellow outline the gray old Gothic halls. 

And all below me gleam the lights of a myriad city 
homes 

That are dearer to the city man than a myriad glit- 
tering domes ; 

For the faces there are glowing with a love that keeps 
him strong 

And comes to his wearied heart and brain like the 
sweetness of a song. 

So, when the night comes down above the city streets. 
And silent-shining star his silent brother greets, 
On the deck of my lofty roof I love to take my sail. 
And watch the passing lights and the stars that never 
fail. 



73 



APRIL FROM A CORNER OF THE COLUM- 
BIAN MUSEUM 

Decorated with figures from the Parthenon 

Through the willows' foremost freshness 

The white-winged clouds go sailing 

In their depth of blue unfailing, 
And I marvel at the beauty new begun ; 

I hear the soft waves lapping, 

I see the leaves unwrapping, — 
And the centaurs fight above me in the sun. 

The world is new-created. 

By a touch that I am feeling. 

And a love that is revealing 
A wonder and a beauty never done; 

The grass is greening ever, 

The birds are ceasing never, — 
While the centaurs fight above me in the sun. 



74 



THE HOME EXPRESS 

Bless me ! this is pleasant, 

Riding on a rail ! 

When the city's rush is over, and the monthly ticket 

shown, 
And the platform's crowd has scattered like the leaves 

in autumn blown, 
Then the engine feels the throttle, as the racer feels 

the whip. 
And sends its drivers whirling for its little homeward 

trip. 

O the home train, and its quiver, aitd its shoot along the 
lake, 
And its gladness that the day is nearly done ; 
And the tumbli77g of the wave crests as they flash and 
swiftly break 
In the last, lo7V, level shini?2g of the sun I 

The clean-cut man of business eyes his fresh-bought 

paper close, 
Culling out the world's wide doings from the padded 

news verbose ; 



75 



And the bargain hunter, sated, sits ensconced amid 

her gains, 
Complacent o'er the patent fact of her superior brains. 

The trainman punches tickets with his swift and easy 

air. 
Like the man that knows his business of getting 

every fare ; 
And he calls the Hyde Park station in the strong 

familiar ring 
As he inward thrusts his body through the car door's 

sudden swing. 

Meanwhile the conversation of the women from the 

clubs 
Increases with the train speed and the whirling of the 

hubs; 
And the latest sociology or Kipling's virile verse, 
Or city art and garbage their gossip intersperse. 

And the judge of human nature, as he notes their 

faces fair. 
Knows these are they whose strenuous wills can 

strongly do and dare ; 
And his inner eye sees visions of immortal Art's wide 

sway 
And clear-eyed Science gazing on a fairer, sweeter 

day. 

76 



So the city's strong-faced thousands spin adown the 

steel-set bed, 
With the two red signals rearward and the yellow on 

ahead ; 
Till the engine feels the throttle 'neath the station's 

glittering light, 
And gladdens waiting home-hearts at the gathering 

of the night. 

O the home train, and its quiver, and its shoot along the 
lake, 
And its gladness that the day is fairly done; 
And the tumbling of the wave crests as they flash and 
swiftly break 
In the twilight and the moonlight just begun / 



77 



LA RABIDA 

Jackson Park, Chicago 

Along the Palos shore where rose the head 

Of rocky Rabida against the sky, 

Columbus with his little son passed by 
To beg at convent door for rest and bread. 
His eager feet from court to court had sped, 

From churchly scorn and learning's blinded eye, 

To find at last a hope that would not die, 
Within the sacred walls where life was fed. 
And here in that wide land he greatly found. 

Above the murmur of the inland sea, 
La Rabida still stands on gracious ground, — 

Outreaching arms of pity to the plea 
Of childhood ill and mother love profound, 

And breathing hope in all her breezes free. 



78 



IVINTEH'S WINDIEST CORNER 

Masonic Temple, Chicago 

The East wind fights the West wind, 
And the North wind fights them both, 

And the triple scrimmage thickens through the day ; 

And a thousand twisting currents in a fierceness 
nothing loth 
Cheer the airy strugglers onward to the fray. 

And the guileless walker westward, 

Stepping strong along the stones, 
Buttons taut his heavy coat across his chest ; 
Yet he knows not what will rend him through the 
marrow of his bones, 

When the fighters on the corner grip his breast. 

Now his new hat hits the gutter 

As it bobs beyond his view. 
And his desperate feet fly up against the air; 
And his arms go fiercely clutching for the maddened, 
whirling crew 

That are snatching at his coat and hatless hair. 

79 



Then, beware the high-topped corner, 
Where the winds fight night and day. 
And the downward currents cheer the fight along ; 
For your hat and feet and body are a simple little 
prey 
When the North and East and West are gripping 
strong. 



80 



A MIDNIGHT LAKE WHISTLE 

Chicago 

I dreamed I sailed through rocking seas remote, 
And felt the engine's vibrant heart below ; 

The salt breeze blew across the bounding boat ; 
The smitten crests went flying to and fro. 

Amid the vastness of the night I woke, 

And heard a whistle, far and sweet and deep, — 

Of smitten waves and engine throbs it spoke; — 
I dreamed again and sailed through seas of sleep. 



8i 



A MIDWAY DASH 

After "J. B. D.," Chicago 

Old Hiram settled it at last ; 

" The time was two — too dee-vil-ish fast ! " 

Robe-wrapped and capped, with faces bold 
Against the sharp, aggressive cold. 
We struck the ice-paved Midway floor 
Breeze-swept from off the windy shore. 

Away the course spread smooth and free 
Where westward rose frost spire and tree ; 
And gray walls lifted on our right 
To mark the swiftness of our flight. 

The lines grew taut, the breeching drew. 
As "J. D.'s" legs did all they knew; 
His splendid head was flung in air, 
His moving tail said : '*Come, who dare !" 

His stride stretched long and sure and true. 
As straight behind his hoof-beats flew ; 
His nostrils breathed defiant breath 
As if he feared nor Time nor Death. 

.82 



Our cheeks burned red, our ears froze white, 
Our eyes were swimming with the sight; 
But still our hearts exulted high, 
Like storm birds shooting through the sky. 

For his body swung in a steady flight 

Like a master spirit fleet ; 
And his breath was the breath of fiery might. 

And the wind was in his feet. 



83 



THE GENIUS OF HULL HOUSE 

Halsted Street, Chicago 

Girt round with misery careless of the light, — 
A motley mass still needing to be one 
In civic hope and happier life begun, — 

Her guiding spirit draws from out the night. 

She knows the worth of comfort and delight 
To win the soul to sit beneath the sun 
And strive for things that only should be won, 

Forever leading with a clearer sight. 

For always to her aid she calls sweet art 

That loves the temple of the human soul. 
To free the mind and bless the wearied heart ; 

And by a human hand-touch her control 

Becomes of e'en the humblest life a part, 

And helps through one the purpose of the whole. 



84 



A SONG OF LABOR 

A song for the builders of beauty, 
The rearers of temple and spire ; 

A song to the strong men of duty 
Who shape the world's future in fire. 

Sing, sing to the women, the mothers. 
The weavers of life and of fate ; 

The sisters who toil for the brothers. 
And open to hope the white gate. 

A song to the brain that devises, • 
And bends nature's will into law ; 

A song to the brain that suffices 
Its purpose from many to draw. 

Sing, sing to the thinkers and hewers,- 
To brothers of brain and of brawn ; 

A song to the world's mighty doers 
Who work for a hastening dawn. 



85 



ASPIRATION 

South Chicago Rolling Mills at Night 

Out flaming like a giant's torch at night, 
Illuming sky and cloud with mounting fire, 
Shoot red and swift and sudden, high and higher, 

The furnace flashings of a molten might. 

Beneath in shadowy spaces, barred from sight, 
The sweaty shapes of Labor toil for hire, 
Intent to get what clamorous mouths require, — 

Grim strugglers in life's fierce and endless fight. 

But upward from their souls springs radiant hope 
To win the sky of promise and of peace. 
Though now below their lives in blackness grope ; 

And like the furnace flash that speaks release. 
Their spirits leap into a clearer scope 
Where stars forever shine on toil's surcease. 



86 



A SONG OF BROTHERHOOD 

We're born of one great mother, 
And we drink one common air, — 

And brother joined with brother 
Sings away all carking care. 

Chorus — For the stars once sang together a sweet 
fraternal song, 

And the rivers, rushing seaward, their har- 
monies prolong ; 

A thousand leaves are murmurous in the 
music of one tree. 

And mother-nature lulls to sleep one great 
humanity. 

We toil and moil together. 

And we think on anxious years ; 

In storm and stress of weather 
Let us sing away our fears. 

Chorus 

Brothers in what's before us. 
Brothers in birth and death ; 

87 



One loving sky bends o'er us, 
Let us sing with joyous breath. 

Chorus — For the stars once sang together a sweet 
fraternal song, 

And the rivers, rushing seaward, their har- 
monies prolong ; 

A thousand leaves are murmurous in the 
music of one tree. 

And mother-nature lulls to sleep one great 
humanity. 



88 



MISCELLANEOUS VERSE 



A NIGHT SONG OF THE CAMP 

Eagle's Nest Bluff 

Spread your blankets round the camp-fire, where the 
leaping flames aspire, 
And the sparks fly up to greet old ruddy Mars ; 
Catch the music of the night wind stirring soft each 
leafy lyre, 
As it breathes fraternal whispers from the stars. 

Watch the stiff '^ old-family" mulleins nod their heads 
athwart the dark 
Like the pride of aristocracy decayed ; 
While the working Sinnissippi moves along without 
remark, 
Turning wheels, — yet bearing sky and richer shade. 

For the whip-poor-will's sweet sorrow lean a sympa- 
thetic ear 
As below the bluff it calls remote and sad ; 
While the katydid keeps harping on its one rough 
note severe, 
And the crickets pipe their chorus clear and glad. 

91 



And above the sounds of night-time list the story's 
ghostly end, 
When the teller's gruesome voice grows low and 
strange ; 
Nor forget to swell the laughter, like a friend that 
helps a friend. 
At the joke that only friends can interchange. 

As the reddened embers crumble in the ashes gray 
and soft, 
And the watchful stars wink faster in the sky, 
Lend a voice in fullest measure to the song that goes 
aloft 
When the campers sing the joys that never die : 

O the fir e- flash and the star -dust and the wind 
among the leaves^ 
And the mystery of all the secret night ; 
And the beauty close about us that our mother 
Nature weaves^ 
And the sweetness that she pours for our delight! 



92 



KATE SHELLEY 

An Iowa Incident 



Three toilsome years she tilled the barren farm, 
A girl of twelve, by violent death bereft 

Of father's, brother's strong supporting arm ; 
A mother's heart in widowed weakness left. 

And none to save the home from threatened harm. 

Three long, brave years the roughened hills she 
wrought. 

Behind the plow the white horse guiding slow 
Through furrowed oat field ; marking all untaught 

Where yellow corn should stand in rustling row. 
And planting as the need the season brought. 

The children with their books she cheered at night, 
Illuming what their tired brains could not see ; 

And when their heavy eyelids barred from sight 
The wavering page, she sat alone, to be 

Herself a struggler up the hills of light. 

93 



II 

Day after day thick fell the sheeted rain ; 

Around the little farm the streamlet fought 
Its broadening way to burst its earthen chain ; 

And with its torrent fingers grimly caught 
The shuddering bridge and shook it all amain. 

'' Run engine to Boone and back again " was all 
The message said ; yet much of meaning lay 

That tempest night in the train despatcher's call, — 
Moingona to Boone — that slept five miles away, 

And twenty bridges trembling to a fall ! 

From out her stall old '^ Number Twelve " was led, 
To trace the track above the torrents' roar ; 

And through the black her searching headlight sped 
In steady course Des Moines' wide waters o'er. 

And on the farm its arrowy radiance shed. 

Slow crept the engine, then, o'er Honey Creek, 
That flung its yellow^ tide about the farm ; 

Its writhing current now no longer weak, 

But striking at the bridge with mighty arm, — 

Intent some deadly vengeance swift to wreak. 

Ill 

Alone that night, to the beating storm attent. 

An engine's dying shriek the young girl caught, — 

94 



The timbers' crash and the hiss of steam unpent : 
"The- bridge is gone — the pusher's in," — words 
fraught 
With dreadful death to the train already sent. 

From mother and home the shawl-wrapt girl stept 
brave, — 
Her lantern, star-like, trembling through the 
night,— 
Along the slippery bank that, floodwashed, gave 
No beaten path to gust-blown, flickering light ; 
But the blackness glowed with the burning hope to 
save. 

Along the broken bridge she crept far out, 

And o'er the flood her wavering lantern swung, 

Till from the drifted tree-tops rose a shout 
Of helpless men that to the branches clung, 

And blessed her as a light in darkest doubt. 

She bade them hope, while eastward swift she ran, 
A double hope, to save the coming train ; 

Before her swung the mighty river's span. 

Six hundred feet fierce-swept with wind and rain, — 

A danger that a stout heart might unman. 

Her lantern light flared out in sudden blast ; 

Her bleeding hands, benumbed by yellow spray, 

95 



Clung tie by tie, as on her knees she passed, 

And felt the shaking bridge beneath the sway 
Of beating driftwood 'gainst the abutments cast. 

In long reverberation o'er her head 

The thunder burst ; and down the blackened skies 
The twisted lightning like a meteor fled, — 

To deepen darkness to her dazzled eyes, 
And fill her woman's heart with stronger dread. 

The bridge at length slow-passed, she onward sped, 
Moingona's sleeping station to forewarn ; 

Her laboring heart, by distant beacon led. 

Leaped up with courage and a hope new-born, 

As through the night she pressed with swifter tread. 

And now the station lamp she breathless passed. 
And on her head its golden blessing fell ; 

For roaring through the rain the engine cast 
Its flaring headlight, and its brazen bell 

Clanged out the cry that would have been its last. 

For rescued travelers she scarce delayed. 
Her burdened heart yet laboring to save ; 

And with their eager engine, unafraid. 

She backward ran to drowning men, that brave 

Still clung, and trusted in her promised aid. 



96 



And one she saved in granite set her name, 

To speak his gratitude through crumbling time ; 

And wide was flung the commonwealth's acclaim 
In golden seal and poet's sounding rhyme, 

To tell the world a girl's unwonted fame. 

For torch-like rose her deed above the night, 
To stir men's hearts and lift their heavy eyes ; 

To flash on shadowed lives the sudden light 
Of fame that comes from daring sacrifice, 

And show how weakness may itself be might. 



97 



SKATERS' SONG AT NIGHT 

When glass-like glints the cracking ice 
And shines a skater's paradise ; 
When eager air breathes keen delight, 
And diamonds dart from starlit night ; 

Leave, leave your care ; 

What sport so rare ! 

Chorus — "Our blades, they flash, our bodies swing. 
Like Time and birds we're on the wing ; 
The frosty stars their music sing ; 
And we — we'll make the welkin ring ! " 

For life's a day — a span — a song, 
And fierce the fight 'twixt weak and strong ; 
Youth's hour-glass swift its course doth run 
From happy dawn till set of sun. 

To joy give way. 

While yet you may. 

Chorus — ''Our blades, they flash, our bodies swing, 
Like Time and birds we're on the wing ; 
The frosty stars their music sing ; 
And we, we'll make the welkin ring 1 " 

98 



C^SAR, MY CAT 

(With variations) 
'Scat in Pace 



Gone from among us, O 

Caesar, my cat ! 
Gone, for you had to go, — 
Scared by a lifelong foe, 

Caesar, my cat. 

Into the world so white, 

Caesar, my pet ; 
Flung on a Sunday night 
(Tears dim my eyes to write) 

Caesar, my pet. 

Oh, what a howl you made, 

Caesar, my life ! 
'Gainst such an ambuscade, 
'Gainst such a cat crusade, 

Caesar, my life ! 

When shall an ermine coat, 
Caesar, my pride, 

99 



(On which I used to dote), 
Clothe a more princely throat, 
Caesar, my pride ? 

When shall such shapely grace, 

Caesar, my charm, 
(Mixed with no fighting trace) 
Sleep soft in feline race, 

Caesar, my charm ? 

Caesar, my sweet, sleep warm, 

Caesar, my soul ! 
Rest 'neath the winter storm 
(Peace to thy furry form !) 

Caesar, my soul. 



100 



OLYMPIAN l^ICTORS 

I stood on the slope of Kronos gray, above the Olym- 
pian plain, 

Where swift Alpheus still pursues his vanishing love 
in vain. 

And wondered deep at the picture rare revealed by 
the German spade — 

A picture aglow on history's page with colors that 
never fade. 

For I saw below me the Stadium, alive with flying feet. 

And banked humanity gazing hard at the naked run- 
ners fleet ; 

And every city's son at prayer that his own shall win 
the race, 

While a life's ambition flushes warm on every athlete's 
face. 

And off toward the curve of the Cladeus, in the 
sacred Altis walls. 

Rose the pillars of that temple vast whose god for- 
ever calls 

lOI 



The victor to bend at his throne, and be crowned with 

Hercules' olive bough, 
And go forth with the fame of his glory bound about 

his leafy brow. 

And then, methought, amid the throng the gray 

Herodotus read, 
As young Thucydides followed rapt his history's 

golden thread ; 
And soft in the temple's shadow the high-browed 

Plato walked. 
While girt with a wondering multitude the sovereign 

Socrates talked. 

Then slow past my eye through the Altis a stately 

procession moved. 
With the psalm of the victor leading on the athletes 

that stood approved — 
Up the steps of the temple and on to the feet of Zeus, 
Where the purpled judges placed the crowns Athena 

alone can produce. 

And up from the free-born races, the lovers of beauty 

and strength. 
From the trembling western river through the Altis' 

sacred length, 
A tide of resounding plaudits swelled full to old 

Kronos' feet. 
And played in the porch of Echo with a murmur long 

and sweet. 



102 



THE CYCLER'S SONG 

The morning's breath blows softly cool 

Adown the shady road ; 
The birds are piping by the pool 

A happy, golden ode. 

Now draw your breath, and fill your soul 

With liquor from the sun ! 
Now spurt and push, ply, spin, and bowl, 

And snatch a world of fun ! 



Night settles softly o'er the world - 
Haste, haste, the day is done ! 

The flag of light is almost furled ; 
Now dies the blood-red sun. 

And life's a race ! then dash apace 
To win the olive crown ! 

Who wins the day may well be gay 
To wear his rich renown. 



103 



A IVOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL 

Thy hands were rough with drudgery's daily round ; 

Thy body weary with the tasks of life 

And all the cares of mother and of wife ; 
Thy feet in paths of poverty were found. 
Thy hope with sweet religion sure was crowned ; 

Thy duty, with all slothful ease at strife, 

Saw all the woes with which the world is rife, 
And labored to bind up each bleeding wound. 

Not easy in thy faith, like present dame. 
Thou couldst not be indifferent to fate — 

But human lives from weakness strove to claim ; 
And thy wide heart, with selfless love innate. 

Divinely felt another's sin and shame — 
Still praying with a spirit strong and great. 



104 



NEWELL DIVIGHT HILLIS 

The poetry of earth is never dead. — Keats 

So wrote the poet on a winter's night, 

When from the hearth there shrilled the cricket's cry 

That seemed a sound beneath a summer sky, 
And filled his drowsy sense with summer light. 
And when amid the stress of mortal fight 

Men hear the preacher's words that beautify 

The truth, they feel that part of us is not to die, 
And strive for that which still is out of sight. 
For in his words are strength and beauty blent — 

The beauty of the poet and the seer. 
The strength of life on other lives intent ; 

And whether men his message only hear. 
Or take it to their hearts divinely sent. 

They love the man and his strong soul revere. 



105 



^A FISHERMAN 

And I will make you fishers of men 

A lover of the woods and streams and sky, 
The quiet lake 'neath evening's level light 
And all of Nature's summer sound and sight, — 

Thou look'st upon her with a poet's eye. 

And when from drifting boat thou'st cast a fly — 
To wait with eager heart for sudden bite 
Where all the depths of mystery excite, 

Thou still hast joy, though all the fish go by. 

And when red summer suns have sunk to rest 
And thy true preacher's work has come again. 

With tender care thou'rt happy in the quest 
Of human souls ; and with thy golden pen 

Thou searchest for the good in every breast, — 
Still largely loving all that's best in men. 



1 06 



DESTINY 

From the German 

Seasons vanish, years go whirling, 

Cradle changing so to grave. 
Men are born, then bloom and shrivel,- 

Coming, going, like the wave ; 
Like the pulsings of our life-blood 

Coursing swiftly through the heart ; 
Happy he in life's short drama 

Who is master of his part ! 



107 



''SALLY IN OUR ALLEY" 

(Moved) 

Where has our Sally gone to live ? I fear 

She's left forever now our alley here, 

Where time and oft we walked together close, 

And gaily spurned the common earth, and gross, 

Dull-eyed humanity. No more I see 

Her glancing down the alley, like a bee. 

Bent on the sweets of life ; her piquant feet 

No longer peer, like mice, and swift retreat ; 

Her clinging styles no longer strike the eye 

That, doting fondly, sees her ne'er go by. 

And. so, 'twixt cup and lip, I've made a slip 

That's dashed the cup to earth. — Time's now a whip 

That hits me hard and never quits. — Why cry ? 

Our alley has another Sally. — Fie ! 



io8 



ANCESTRAL WORSHIP 

Egyptian wrappage or the Grecian urn 
Did once perpetuate a father's clay, 
Preserving through slow centuries and gray 

The human remnant for the hope eterne. 

And what the fires of funerals could not burn, 
Nor time's insidious tooth gnaw quite away, 
Became a shrine of virtues where might pray 

The latest sons, and of their fathers learn. 

But we, grown wiser, plant a family tree. 

And 'neath its broadening branches sit us down 

Content to trace a noble pedigree. 

Unapt to win a rich and high renown ; 

Content to dream of knights armed cap-a-pie. 
Yet hoping from the sky to see a crown. 



109 



CHARLES LAMB'S BEAUMONT 
AND FLETCHER 

In the British Museum is Charles Lamb's copy of Beaumont 
and Fletcher, in which this note is written : " I shall not be long 
here, Charles ! I gone, you will not mind my having spoiled a 
book in order to leave a relic. — S. T. C. 

A book beloved by those two hearts sincere, 
And bought so dearly in the grinding stress 
Of poverty — how many a fond caress 

It felt from that fine spirit, year by year ! 

How oft o'erpored^ — the frequent marks appear 
As speaking chroniclers of tenderness. 
And margins eloquent do oft address 

The listening heart, responding with a tear. 

And for its dower it hath from him who wrote 
The ^^ Mariner," those words of pathos deep 

And humor sad that hovering death denote — 
Such solemn words as point to mortal sleep 

Where dreams may come, in some dim land remote 
Whence souls return no more to them that weep. 



no 



ST. GEORGE'S IN THE EAST 

I^ondon 

Ye London poor, whose haggard lives grow old 
In noisome wretchedness, whose sunless day 
Slow sinks to starless night — if ye could pray 

Your own first prayer, what would it first unfold ? 
*' A plea for life ; for right to live from cold 
And famine free ; for God's own sunlight aye 
To shine on us, and melt the gloom away ; 

For e'en a little play, a little gold." 

And to your prayer the closing words would rise 
For human love, in yearnings strong and deep. 
And -brotherhood with all the sweet and wise ; — 

Until Time's stifling walls your souls o'erleap. 
And mount where Truth, unveiling to the eyes 
Of Faith, forever beckons up the steep. 



Ill 



TO MR. GLADSTONE 

London, 1893 

O veteran warrior ! In this clamorous time 
Of hatred, thou dost beat the surges high 
With all the eager force of years gone by, 

And rid'st the raging storm with faith sublime. 

Canst thou have found, in this inclement clime, 
The fount of fabled w^aters that defy 
Time's shriveling touch ; or doth thy soul outfly 

The eagle's wing, and sunward keep its prime ? 

Best-hated and best-loved ! may thy right arm 
Still strike the foeman home, till that sad Isle 

To westward — self-controlled — this wild alarm 
Shall cease, and on a happier union smile ; — 

So shall thy life wear one more fadeless charm. 
When men through thee their hatreds reconcile. 



112 



ALLOWAY KIRK 

Scotland 

Tho' girt with solemn graves and guarding still 
The ashes of its name, tho' consecrate 
To worship and the tale of human fate, 

Another destiny must it fulfil. 

A roofless ruin, — where the wind its will 

Doth follow and the storm doth pour its hate, — 
No more staid worshipers shall it await. 

Or swing its soundless bell towards Carrick Hill. 

For on black nights within it shines a fire. 

Where mad-eyed witches whirl in wildest dance,— 

Not to the breathings of Apollo's lyre 

But Nick's shrill bagpipe do the hags advance ; 

While Tam, bewitched, ignores their coming ire. 
And Meg's swift eyes are lit with frenzied glance. 



113 



SAEk^ INDIGNATIO 

From Swift's own Epitaph 

Where madness fierce no longer tears the heart, 
Thou liest, Dean, in thy cathedral grave, 
As still as any stone along the nave 

Or that thick-lying darkness where thou art. 

The torch-flare that did make the shadows start 
At midnight, when the bearers ghostly gave 
Thy b£)dy to its bed, was not more slave 

Of gust than thou to thy life-lasting smart. 

Yet now thou sleepest calmly, by the side 
Of one who knew thy passion's secret force. 

And knowing, watched its wildest waves divide 
Into the calm of love, or deep remorse — 

Grown deeper when herself, thy secret bride. 
By midnight torch was borne a wasted corse. 



114 



THE STROLLING PLAYER 

Before the Home for the Blind in Dublin 

Nor any song of great and high intent 
Nor music intellectual dost thou play, 
Standing before those walls that shut the day 

From eyes that never on the daylight bent ; 

And yet from out thy brazen instrument 
Thou pourest melodies that melt away 
The dark, and make those blinded eyes survey 

The seraphs on some earthly mission sent. 
For in thy heart for aye the thrushes sing, 

And in thy soul the skylark weaves his flight. 
Uprising on the song that lifts his wing, — 

Such harmonies as fill thee with delight. 
Which thou revivest, and canst softly bring 

To simple hearts grown heavy with the night. 



115 



FROM THE DOME OF ST. PAUL'S 

London 

These deep-walled streets whose crowded channels 
surge 

With ceaseless tumult, rolling at the feet 

Of this unshaking temple, while the beat 
Of its great bells is sounding a swift dirge ! — 
In their wild currents, from the outmost verge 

Of hope, life plunges to its last retreat, — 

Thinking to reach oblivion complete. 
And in the sullen roar its sorrow merge. 
Through these vast windings, what tumultuous fears. 

What sudden madness, what despair have swept. 
What reddened waves of murder mixed with tears ! 

How vice upon the innocent hath crept. 
And anarchy loud hissed in frightened ears, 

And poverty its bitter anguish wept ! 



ii6 



TO SHELLEY'S SOPHOCLES 

The book, now in the Bodleian Library at Oxford, was found in 
Shelley's hand after the body was washed ashore 

O Book, death-gripped by him whose drowning hand 
Still loved thee, though the envious waters caught 
His fragile li'fe in mad embrace — untaught 

Their swift and mounting passion to withstand ! 

Dost thou still feel the hard Italian sand 

That marred thy form beloved — thy form so fraught 
With rare and stately beauty that he brought 

Thee only from the sea-depths to the strand ? 

Thou canst not feel the elements, yet still 

His dying hand's last pressure thou must feel ; 

And thy deep tragic heart for a}/e must thrill 
With thoughts thy great creator doth reveal. 

And his high song and flaming love whose will 
The groaning world's wide misery would heal. 



117 



THE "ELEGY" CHURCHYARD 

Stoke Pogis, England 

The curfew past, the evening star its light 

Sheds soft upon me, as I ope the gate 

Of that dim churchyard, treading lone and late 
The chambered home of Death and human blight. 
The turf yet heaves with graves unmarked, the white 

Death-fingers upward point, the owl of fate — 

From yonder ivy-blackened tower — the state 
And pride of man still hoots, and loves the night. 
But in that high-built grave, mother and son 

Joined now forever, sleep in deathless peace. 
The guardian elms about ; for he hath won 

For all that mortal scene an endless lease 
Of life by his brief ''epitaph," — and none 

Hath need to mark for men his glad decease. 



ii8 



AT KENILIVORTH 

These ruins that were once embattled power, 

That once the king's own fighters back could hurl, 
And o'er whose walls did proudly once unfurl 

The king's own banners from each frowning tower : 

What gives to them from fame the richest dower ? 
The simple, old, old story, how an earl 
In secret loved a sweet, bewitching girl. 

And hid her from his queen in leafy bower. 

And so, although the banquet hall's forgot, 
And noise of knightly tilting in the yard, 

The tender heart of man still loves the spot 
Where Leicester loved, and keeps in its regard 

Grim Mervyn's Tower — forgetful of the plot 
To crush a life unhappy, evil-starred. 



119 



THE MARTYR'S STAKE 

In the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford 

We shall this day light such a candle by God's grace in Eng- 
land as I trust shall never be put out. — Latimer to Ridley, 
1555. 

Thou blackened chronicler of hate whose chains 

Fast held the torch that dying lit the world ! 

If thou couldst speak the pain that through thee 

thrilled 
Of those two heroes burning at thy side ; 
If thou that shining prophecy coulHst flash 
That calmly shaped itself before the flame, 
And feel the shriveled weight of Ridley's life 
Down rolling at his dead companion's feet ; 
If thou couldst still be conscious of his gaze 
Whose eyes from Michael's Tower were bent on thee, 
And hear his painful prayer for those two souls 
That led his own to death : — 
Thou'dst fill the world again with horror, and 
Thine anguished cry would nerve the battle 'gainst 
Swift-springing bigotry that never dies. 



120 



IN THE ORCHARD GARDEN 

At Dove Cottage, Grasmere 

Not Arthur's rock-sprung seat and Silverhow, 

Nor Easedale's shining wedge and Helm Crag's 
wall, 

Nor White Moss on whose pools the sunsets fall, — 
For these men linger not 'neath blossomed bough. 
Nor thou sweet primrose, and not such as thou — 

The daffodil and daisy — nor yet all 

The thrush's music and the cuckoo's call 
This orchard-garden with its charm endow. 
Here in his self-hewn seat did Coleridge sit. 

Or in sun-sprinkled shadows stretch his soul ; 
Here walked De Quincey in a dream unwrit, 

And he who loved the stars about the pole ; 
Here Wordsworth watched the linnets round him flit. 

And yielded all to Nature's sweet control. 



121 



A WORDSWORTH MEMORIAL 

When men memorial words would lift to thee, 
To speak to aftertime undying praise, — 
Reviving in the tribute that they raise 

What thou to them didst give in poesy : 

Let them not merely say that thou art he 
Whose verse upon the lives of men still lays 
Its benediction — beautiful in phrase 

As sunlight on the grass or on the sea ; 

But let them say as well, that men to know 

Thy calmness, close by Easedale Tarn should sit, 
And drink the silences that from it flow; 

To feel the beauty that thy lines transmit. 

Should stand on great Helvellyn, while the glow 

Of dawn-cloud breaks in glory never writ. 



122 



PICTURES 

A Stratford swan afloat by elms and spire ; 

Helvellyn's sunrise tinting all the lakes ; 

And Chillon's castle when no wavelet breaks 
Its deep reflection — these my heart's desire ; 
And lion lifting wings that never tire 

Above the moon-paved waters ; isle that wakes 

From purple pillows when Vesuvius shakes; 
And wingless Nike framed in sunset fire. 
And having seen — long journeyings now past — 

I walked beneath mine own benignant skies, 
And talked with men that round the world had cast 

A curious gaze ; yet to my sad surprise 
My pictures slowly faded, — till at last 

I turned and saw them in a poet's eyes. 



123 



SONNETS ON SCULPTURE 



THE COLUMBIAN QUADRIGA 

By Daniel Chester French 

O stateliest glory of the Peristyle, 

Quadriga of the victor ! Bearer bold 
Of him whose eye prophetic saw unfold 

A world of beauty, brilliant with the smile 

Of the Creator. ^^Bear him yet awhile," 
The nations cried departing — New and Old 
Uniting in a gratitude untold 

To him whose purpose nothing could beguile. 
But from the murmurous song of inland sea, 

The sculptured whiteness of fair Honor's court. 
And the Republic's presence calm and free, 

Thou didst upbear him to a star-lit port. 
Upon a flame-cloud like a seer of eld, — 
And all the people sighed as they beheld. 



127 



THE STATUE OF THE REPUBLIC 

By Daniel Chester French 

Engirt with dreamful beauty thou didst stand, 

By day and night illumined, and thy feet 

The gathered nations thronged with homage sweet-- 
The world's hope shining in thine outstretched hand. 
The nations left thee there upon the strand 

To isolation splendid and complete ; 

The flames rose round thee with their withering 
heat 
And touched thy flashing beauty to a brand. 
Yet still unscathed thy spirit could not die, — 

And o'er the land thy rising genius leads, 
And summons all to freedom and the sky; 

Like thine own eagle that no respite needs. 
But sunward mounts with ever clearer eye, 

Thou dost persuade to high and higher deeds. 



129 



THE LIBERATOR 

St. Gaudens' Lincoln, Lincoln Park, Chicago 

Uprisen from his fasced chair of state, 
Above his riven people bending grave, — 
His heart upon the sorrow of the slave, — 

Stands simply strong the kindly man of fate. 

By war's deep bitterness and brothers' hate 
Untouched he stands, intent alone to save 
What God himself and human justice gave, — 

The right of men to freedom's fair estate. 

In homely strength he towers almost divine, 
His mighty shoulders bent with breaking care. 

His thought-worn face with sympathies grown fine ; 
And as men gaze, their hearts as oft declare 

That this is he whom all their hearts enshrine, — 
This man that saved a race from slow despair. 



130 



THE LAKE-FRONT VOLUNTEER. 

Chicago 

Great men become types. The people single them out 
with the ready common sense which belongs to no man, but to all 
men .... Logan is our Great Volunteer. — George R. Peck 

High-lifted on his fiercely mettled steed, 

Aflame with fight and patriotic fire, 

He flings aloft the volunteer's desire — 
The flag of men that crave a splendid deed. 
He learned the sorrow of a race unfreed ; 

He saw uncounted sacred lives expire ; 

He heard the groanings of a slaughter dire ; 
And conned the horrors of a soldier's creed. 
And yet aloft he signals alt the free 

To guard the weak, redressing human wrong 
E'en on the suffering islands of the sea; 

And never from that right hand, gripping strong. 
Shall fall the flag of hope and victory — 

Still leading on to peace and patriot song. 



131 



DESPAIR. 

By Lorado Taft 

Though bowed above thine everlasting grief, 
Thy loosened locks in sorrow dropping low, 
Thy Greek-like beauty touched with secret woe. 

We cannot pray for thee a swift relief. 

For beauty is at best so rare and brief, — 
The gift supreme that only gods bestow, 
And snatch from us ere yet we fully know, — 

That of our all we count it e'en the chief. 

And while with thee we cannot chose but mourn, 
And ask that to thy heart the years will bear 

Some sweetness that shall make it less forlorn ; 
We yet would keep thee in thy sorrow fair, 

And thank the gods that thou wast ever born 
To make us all in love with deep despair. 



132 



THE UGL Y DUCKLING 

Hans Christian Andersen, Lincoln Park, Chicago 
By Johannes Gelert 

Beside his swan in happiness serene, 

His pencil waiting for some fairy thought 
That out of his sweet fancy he has caught, 

He sits forever 'mid his world of green. 

Uncouth and homely as the duckling mean 
Whose early ugliness long sorrow brought 
And yet for swan-like beauty ever sought, — 

His plainness is to children's eyes unseen. 

For o'er their spirits waves his wondrous wand 
That guides them to a realm undreamed before, 

Where marvel holds them in its sweetest bond ; 
And while above his books their faces pore 

And follow with their eyes ashine and fond. 
The great world's children love him evermore. 



133 



THE LOWELL MtMOR/AL 

In the Chapter-House Entrance, Westminster Abbey 

Where once did pass the makers of the law, 
Fit type of that yet higher law men know 
As truth, thou gazest calmly, poet — foe 

To all the false and mean thy swift eye saw. 

Above thy face unchanging, 'mid the awe 
Of that dim cloistered stillness, visions glow 
Of dreaming knight and slavery's overthrow, — 

Such visions as thyself didst love to draw. 

And round thy head, with Lincoln's still doth shine 
Great England's flag — illumined thought to men, 

How hearts, unnarrowed by a sea- drawn line. 
May love their own with loyal voice and pen. 

Yet loving still sweet freedom's earlier shrine, 
And all the glories of a wider ken. 



134 



THE SCOTT MEMORIAL 

Edinburgh 

O masterful magician, 'mid the world 

Thyself created, — sceptered with the wand 
That viewless rules the heart — how far beyond 

Thy Gothic throne thy sovereignty's unfurled! 

Where mediaeval fighters madly hurled 

Relentless shock, where Katrine's waters fond 
Embosom that sweet Isle, where glove was donned 

And helmet, and the smuggler's smoke upcurled, — 

These are thy rightful realm, — and misty moor 
And glowing chivalry, the hearts of kings. 

The beauty and the bravery of the poor ; 
And to thy throne, a happy vassal, clings 

The heart of Maida, wishing to be sure 

If thou hast closed thy book for better things. 



135 



THE LION OF LUCERNE 

By Thorwaldsen 

O dying fighter for the fleur de lis — 

Thy ebbing heart struck through with frenzied spear 
Beats free forever from reproach or fear, 

In silent, ineffectual agony ; 

Not fruitless — tho' thy alien king to thee 
Was worse than enemy in front and rear, 
Than all the roarings of the cannoneer 

And all the black-browed Marseillese could be. 

Not fruitless — for thy causeless martyrdom 

Doth quicken the dead stone to ceaseless speech, 
Telling the heart not weakly to succumb, 

But like red steady Swiss to close the breach 
With valor, tho' by numbers overborne — 
And god-like fall in loyalty foresworn. 



136 



GANYMEDE TO HIS EAGLE 

Suggested by Thorwaldsen's Relief 

O splendid eagle, from Olympus white 

Above the blue JEgea.n hast thou flown — 

Through those far spaces flying all alone 
By sunlit day or long and starless night ? 
Thou must be wearied with thine earthward flight, 

And thirsty with the heat of burning zone ; 

And this pure draft from out the living stone 
Is all I have thy labor to requite. 
But yet I envy thee thy lonely way 

Among the clouds and o'er the far blue sea, 
Through thick black night and reddening dawn of 
day; 

For thou didst come from Zeus, where all must be 
Forever fair and safe from swift decay — 

And when thou dost return, I pray take me. 



137 



THE BRONZE HOUSES OF ST. MARK'S 

Venice 

Triumphal horses that so long ago 

Beside the Bosporus their chariot drew — 
Till that blind victor doge their beauty knew, 

And snatched from out the city's overthrow : 

Six centuries of sunset they did glow 
Fair as Apollo's horses to the view, 
When swift adown the westering slopes of blue 

They flash to drink the night's deep overflow. 

But splendid war-steeds still the victor's eye 
Alluring, they must stand beside the Seine, 

A soldier's ruthless dream to glorify 

Until he fell ; and they once more might gain 

That place of peace within the sunset sky 

Where pigeons coo — the saint's resplendent fane 



138 



THE HERMES AT OLYMPIA 

By Praxiteles 

In sympathy dost thou divert the boy, 

His mother by his father strangely slain — 

Revolving now thy wand to entertain 
The chubby wine-god with a new-found toy ? 
Or dost thou see with what exultant joy 

The Thracian nymphs the Zeus-sprung child will 
gain — 

In all the fruitful arts of life to train 
Him whom thou now so lightly dost convoy ? 
Howe'er it be, this only do we know — 

Sweet knowledge of a thing more sweet — for years 
A thousand, mid the river's overflow, 

Thou'st held the happy boy whose eager ears, 
In Hera's temple, caught so long ago 

The echoes vast of multitudinous cheers. 



139 



DEATH AND THE SCULPTOR 

By Daniel Chester French 

His spirit with the wings of genius fanned, 
And inspiration kindhng in his face, 
O Death thou canst not touch him thus apace 

With thy remorseless, petrifying hand ! 

For e'en already at his sweet command 

The Sphinx grows gentler, breathing to the race 
The mystery of life, and all the grace 

That crowns it in the far and shadowed land. 

Stand not imperious, Death; let genius do 
What only genius can, nor make thine own 

The mind's unfinished vision ; yet how few 
To their completed work thou sparest — prone 

To strike the master down in eager view 
Of his creation, near perfection grown. 



141 



A TRIO OF DOGS 



TO LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL 

Edward Dowden's Dog 

O wrinkled, large-eyed statesman filled with might - 
Though showing to thy friends a glowing heart 
And sorrow bowed in tears when they depart, 

Like thy great namesake thou dost love a fight. 

For if the Gothic cook but heave in sight 
Thy blood is up, and like a sudden dart 
Thou fliest, speeding hot with secret smart. 

And lifting hair and voice to maddened height. 

How canst thou hate a cook as 'twere a cat ? 
Is she a "' Parnellite," that thus much gall 

Thou showest — though she feed thee sleekly fat ? 
Thou biased politician — let her call 

The magic name of " Balfour" ne'er so pat, 
Thou'dst fight her from the table to the hall. 



145 



A MODERN NEPTUNE 

No brazen-footed horses dost thou drive, 

Like that old god upon the far blue sea; 

Nor round thy chariot-wheels in flashing glee 
Disport the dolphins as they arch and dive. 
Yet with a snow-white steed dost thou arrive 

Before the gate, beneath the mighty tree ; 

Nor unattended canst thou ever be^ 
Since with thee ride some guardian spirits five. 
On lawn or porch, or winking at the fire, 

In phaeton or bank — where'er thou art; — 
Retrieving balls, or, touched with sudden ire. 

Assaulting hot cigars, — thou play'st a part 
Than ancient sea-god sweeter far, and higher : 

He ruled the sea, thou rul'st the human heart. 



146 



TO AN AMERICAN RAB 

From his Friends 

Nor Byron's *' Boatswain '' nor the silken "Flush'' 
Of England's laureled poetess ; nor he 
That watched by dying Ailie's bed to see 

The knife's swift issue and to feel the hush 

Of life's still sea, — I say thou need'st not blush 
With these to have compared thy pedigree, 
Thy virtues, or thy beauties rare. For we 

Know well thy Gordon line, thy sudden rush 

O'er stubbled field, thy quivering nose low-bent. 
Thy flag-like tail flung wide. And Veil we know 

Thy deep-set, solemn eye aglow — attent 
Upon the family or the field. We owe 

Thee praise for love, and faith magnificent. 
And bless thy heart's perpetual overflow. 



147 



A TRINITY OF CHILDREN 



A YOUNG PHILOSOPHER. 

Thou best philosopher .... 

On whom those truths do rest, 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find. 

— Wordsworth. 

Folding his rabbit 'gainst a happy heart, 

And greeting all mankind with winning smile 
As if from its wide woe he did beguile, — 

He would to all his happiness impart. 

No learned theologian crammed with art, 
And looking on the world as something vile 
Where he, forsooth, must linger yet awhile, — 

He loves the world e'en when the tear-drops start. 

For in his soul God's sweetness doth abide 
Untouched with bitter sorrow or with sin ; 

And all his loving nature opens wide 

To drink the sunlight to his heart akin, — 

Unknowing aught that his young life should hide. 
Where all is light and loveliness within. 



151 



KISSING THE ROSE 

A human flower — her lips against a rose, 

She seems a sylph-like part of that sweet place 
Whose garden beauty breathes upon her face 

And round her all its summer softness throws. 

A rarer picture artist never chose 

Than that dear fairy child's unconscious grace 
x\mid the leafy garden's soft embrace, 

Where sun in search of shadow ever goes. 

Her lustrous eyes drink deep the sky's rich light ; 
Her chubby fingers clasp the richer flower 

That blushes at the kiss her lips invite ; 
And like a golden heart within the bower 

Her sunny curls shine soft upon the sight, — 
A human picture past all painter's power. 



3i 



HAROLD THE KING 

And a little child shall lead them 

His rounded face on some fair vision bent 

That deepens in his eyes their dreamy light 

And fills his golden head with figures bright, 
He sits a youthful king, omnipotent. 
To autocrat no stronger sway is lent 

Than rests in this young monarch's changeless 
might, 

Who rules his own in a celestial right 
And binds his subjects with their own consent. 
For childhood's power, unconscious though it be, 

Transcends the limits of man's proud estate 
That forces duty by a hard decree ; 

And sweet soft mouth, and eyes that pleading wait 
Fulfilment of their least desire to see. 

Rule human hearts by a deep law of fate. 



155 



SONNETS ON SHAKSPERE 



FROM ANNE HATHAWAY S COTTAGE 

Where her descendant, the aged Mrs. Baker, was still living 

The voice of that sweet woman now was still ; 

Upon the carven bed and chimney-seat 

Her words had rested with a love complete ; 
Her hand of antique flowers had plucked my fill. 
In those wide fields my senses felt no thrill 

Of battle — only the rosy silence sweet 

Of sunset, and the lamb's sad human bleat ; 
And on my eye the flash of daffodil. 
'Twas Shakspere's flower, and to my inner eye 

Beneath those elms benignant came a youth 
With eager feet ; and as he passed me by 

I marked his ardent face, his gentle ruth, 
And genius kindling on his forehead high — 

'Twas Shakspere going to his love in truth ! 



159 



THE TWO ROSES 

In Shakspere's School at Stratford 

Red-hearted rose of white, white-hearted rose 

Of red — their petals blending on the wall 

Of that old Council Chamber — sign to all 
Of Stratford's joy o'er fresh-united foes — 
From timbered panels still they speak of those 

Whose blood like water wasted at the call 

Of rose-defenders, casting wide a pall 
O'er stricken England till the mad wars' close. 
But by their armed red and dying white 

They once did stir a youth's dramatic fire. 
Whose widening mind could feel each maddened 
fight; 

To each heroic hope could swift aspire ; 
Could shake with desperate terror of the flight. 

And taste the glorious lust of vengeance dire. 



1 60 



SHAKSPERE'S WILL 

Somerset House, London 

I sought through Shakspere's city far and wide, 
For Shakspere — empty quest for any trace, 
In London's labyrinth where interlace 

The currents of the world, of that full tide 

Of love and life called Shakspere. There abide 
No cherished shrines to which the human race 
May make its loving pilgrimage ; the face 

Of Bankside strange hath grown, and Southwark's 
pride 

Lies leveled in the dust. Yet last of all. 

Upon the Thames, deep down 'neath barred door, 

I saw a tattered testament — men call 

It his — and stranger than all ancient lore 

I read the doubtful name amid the scrawl — 
More precious grown than mine of golden ore. 



i6i 



SHYLOCK TO SALARINO 

Hath not a Jew eyes ? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimen- 
sions ? 

Strong type intense of a yet stronger race, 
That through the centuries of ceaseless hate 
Have still been proudly masterful and great — 

We feel the misery of thy long disgrace. 

And in the hardness of that eager face 
That unafraid looks in the eye of fate, 
And seeks its deadly vengeance through the state, 

Our common human nature we can trace. 

Alike with Christian hast thou hand and eye, 
And body fed with the same daily food, 

And with like pain and poison dost thou die ; 
In home-love wounded by ingratitude — 

And round thy human heart wild passions fly 
Of avarice and hate — a harpy brood. 



162 



KING RICHARD AT BOSIVORTH FIELD 

I shall despair. There is no creature loves me ; 
And, if I die, no soul shall pity me. 

Afflicted with grim ghosts that rise at night — 

Of brother, helpless nephews, hopeless wife, — 

His conscience with accusing horrors rife, — 
He cries aloud in terror of the sight. 
And now, adream, he seems to lose the fight — 

His horse is gone, his wounds bleed in the strife ; 

He pleads with Christ for pity on his life, 
And all his sins with lashing tongues affright. 
Alone, unloved, he feels himself undone — 

Self-hated, and accused by all his past, — 
And conquered ere the battle is begun ; 

His soul stands faint, with murderous guilt aghast, 
And looks upon his deadly triumphs won 

As fiends to whelm him in one ruin vast. 



1^3 



ANTONY AS AN ORATOR 

I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, 
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech. 
To stir men's blood ; I only speak right on. 

A mighty populace about him prest, — 

Whose maddened, vengeful cries rise high and 
higher, 

Like leaping flames amid a fresh-stirred fire, — 
And every passion sways at his behest. 
Aloft upon their fury's whirling crest 

He rides the storm his subtle words inspire, 

And guides to vengeance, swift and sure and dire, — 
Like some fierce god impelling every breast. 
For Brutus' words have vanished like a smoke 

Before the wind of his inspired breath 
That stirs the blood of fickle common folk ; 

And while they hang on every word he saith. 
Their eyes and hearts see every traitorous stroke 

That stabbed their mangled Caesar to his death. 



164 



BRUTUS IN HIS TENT AT SAUDIS 

This is a sleepy tune. . . . 
If thou dost nod, thou breakst thy instrument ; 
I'll take it from thee ; and, good boy, good night. 

Alone at night in his commander's tent, 

Sleepless he broods upon his dead wife's fate, 

And all the terrors of approaching hate, — 
And craves a strain from Lucius' instrument. 
But tired young fingers o'er the music bent 

Above discordant strings now hesitate ; 

And boyish eyes, adroop with slumber's weight, 
See wavering figures out of dreamland sent. 
And that imperious man who ne'er could brook 

The thought of tyrant in his native land, 
And bore with scorn old Cassius' iron look, — 

Stirred not the sleeping boy with his command, 
But took his instrument, — and o'er a book 

Began to turn the leaves with tender hand. 



165 



LADY MACBETH IN SLEEP 

The innocent sleep, 

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care ; 

. . . . Balm of hurt minds. — Macbeth. 

You see, her eyes are open. — Doctor. 

Ay, but their sense is shut. — Gentlewoman. 

With open but unseeing eyes she goes, 

A taper lighting her remorseful way, 

That murderous night may look more like the day. 
Less rife with images of all she knows. 
For ghosts will walk — far worse than armed foes — 

Of those that mad ambitions foully slay, 

Invited Banquo, Duncan old and gray. 
And Fife's sweet wife amid her children's woes. 
And though her opened eyes still sightless are. 

And gaze unmeaning 'neath the taper's light, 
That inner eye sees visions from afar 

That blood-red rise through every dreamful night, — 
Visions of murdered guest, and king, and wife. 
And all the spectral horrors of her life. 



1 66 



MACBETH ON HIS WIFE'S DEATH 

She should have died hereafter ; 

. . . Out, out, brief candle ! 
Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player. 
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
And then is heard no more. 

His boastful banners on the outward wall, 
His castle frowning on his loathsome foe 
That waits by fateful Birnam wood below — 

He hears the cry of women in the hall. 

His great queen's death drops like a sudden pall 
Upon them, wailing in their woman's woe 
Her woman's greatness, Death's dire overthrow. 

And all the majesty their hearts recall. 

Yet on his heart, as hard as armor plate, — 
Grown desperate in his citadel of stone, — 

'Tis but an echo of all human fate ; 

And to him friendless, hated, and alone, 

' Mid thickening terrors of a falling state, 
Life seems as empty as a bauble throne ! 



167 



OTHELLO'S MESSAGE TO THE l^ENETIAN 

STATE 

Speak of me as I am ; . . . . 

Of one that loved not wisely, but too well ; 
. . . . of one whose hand, 
Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away 
Richer than all his tribe. 

A sword of ice-brook's temper in his hand,- — 
Engirt with faces stricken and dismayed, 
And of his mighty passion yet afraid, — 

The murderous Moor waits nerveless and unmanned. 

For now his mindless furies understand 
What deadly blunder jealousy hath made ; 
That on her spotless, patient couch is laid 

His murdered wife, whose death he madly planned. 

Her white face mutely speaks his judgment dire. 
And seems from heaven's height to cast him low 
For fiends to snatch in penitential fire ; 

And all the pain remorse can undergo 

Strikes through his hopeless soul and heart's desire, 
Ere 'gainst himself he gives the fatal blow. 



1 68 



KING LEAH ON THE HEATH 

Where the greater malady is fixed the lesser is scarce felt. 

Barred out from all the castle's warmth and light 
By she-wolf daughters fierce against their sire, 
And helpless 'neath their steady crushing ire, 

Alone he stands amid the crashing night. 

His thin white hair he tears in his despite ; 
And as the blackness splits with heaven's fire 
And pounding thunders crack with menace dire, 

His roofless head he prays them swift to smite. 

But outward tempests, to the inward storm 
That rages over base ingratitude. 

Are all unfelt by that imperial form ; 

And chilling floods that dash in deadly feud. 

To filial coldness, seem but raindrops warm, — 
In that old king's insane remorseful mood. 



169 



PROSPERO ON HIS MAGICAL SHOPV 

And our little life is rounded with a sleep. 

The lovers' eyes with wonder all aglow 

At his rare vision waved from out the sky, — 

Of fairy figures dancing sweetly by, — 
He swiftly ends his fleeting magic show. 
And Juno, Ceres, nymphs and reapers go 

As if they ne'er had flashed upon the eye ; 

But like poor human kind they strangely die 
When they in fair achievement most bestow. 
And, in his sight prophetic, battlement, — 

Cathedral, — homes of kings, — the good green 
earth, — 
Shall in one mighty ruin all be blent ; 

Nor any trace of mortal love and mirth 
Shall last beyond that ultimate event 

When men shall sleep unconscious of their birth. 



170 



HAMLET IN THE CHURCHYARD 

The very conveyances of his lands will hardly lie in this 
box ; and must the inheritor himself have no more ? 



The ghastly humor of a graveyard clown 

Whose grunting ballad rises from the grave, — 
And then a skull the moldy earth upgave, 

Mayhap a lawyer's stuffed with dirt, and brown. 

A buyer of much land about the town, — 

In Hamlet's thought — that by this jowling knave 
Is knocked about the mazzard like a slave, 

And ne'er a single head-shake nor a frown. 

His very deeds a coffin-box might fill, — 
So spacious his possessions of the earth, — 

And every voucher framed with nicest skill ; 
And yet, alas ! with all his landed worth, 

And all the items of his close-drawn will, 

He's shoveled out, — a thing of mock and mirth. 



171 



THE KING'S JESTER. 

Where be your jibes now ? . . . Your flashes of merrimeni 
that were wont to set the table on a roar ? — Hamlet. 



A fellow of quick mirth and richest jest, 
That wasted on the sexton's bended head 
A flagon of old Rhenish, rare and red,— 

By that same sexton now is dispossessed. 

Upon his back a thousand times as guest 

He's borne the boyish Prince with bounding tread, 
And through the royal halls hath gaily sped, — 

And now by that same Prince he's found at rest. 

He once did shoot his gibes with sharpest wit. 
Sing songs of wine and love in happiest glee, 

And start the smiles of those he aptly hit ; 
And now no wit, no song, no laughter free. 

But ghastly grinning of the earthy pit, 

Bemocking his own fate and Time's decree. 



172 



THb DEATH OF HAMLET 

The readiness is all. — Hamlet. 
The rest is silence. — Horatio. 

Struck low, in treachery, to thine early end, 
By him thou call'dst a brother and forgave, 
Thou liest on the margin of the grave 

And speakst thy message to thine only friend. 

If Death to thee one hour would even lend ; 

If his swift mandate thou couldst still out brave, 
And tell to all what thy full heart doth crave. 

The world with bated breath would thee attend. 

But her whose brother leagued against thy life 
Thou'st seen laid low in her last resting-place ; 

And thy dead mother now no more his wife 

Whose body lies with upturned murderous face ;- 

In thy long sleep now rest thee from the strife, 
And dreamless silence wrap thee in its grace. 



173 



"TO-DAY FOR ME, TO-MORROW DEATH 
FOR YOU" 

At the opening of the Stratford charnel-house, in 1880, a 
skull was thrown out, bearing the inscription, " Hodie mihi, eras 
tibi." * 

"To-day for me, to-morrow death for you/* 

As if through Yorick's lips dead Shakspere spoke 

Again, there rise the sickening words that choke 
Our aspiration and our wills subdue. 
But still the Stratford meadows shine with dew; 

The swan of Avon glides with unseen stroke ; 

The listening sky the elm-tops still invoke ; 
The rooks are flying, just as once they flew. 
Still Nature richly gives, and calmly brave 

Asserts to life her immemorial right ; 
And still from out the poet's stone-bound grave 

The hope of life arises, and the light 
Of every dawn that floods through choir and nave 

Brings radiant immortality from night. 

* See note. 



74 



NOTES 



NOTES 

KA TE SHELLEY 

On the night of July 6, 1881, in the midst of a violent 
storm of wind and rain, Kate Shelley, a girl of fifteen, left 
her home on Honey Creek, near Moingona, Iowa, and dis- 
covered that an engine, sent to test the bridges between 
Moingona and Boone, had plunged through the bridge into 
the swollen stream. Two of the crew were drowned, but 
the engineer and brakeman still clung to an uprooted tree 
that had come down with the driftwood. 

Encouraging them to hold out, she ran to the high 
wooden bridge, six hundred feet long, spanning the Des 
Moines river. The ties of the bridge were three feet apart, 
so that in the night it was necessary for her to crawl on her 
hands and knees. Her lantern was put out by a gust of 
wind, and the occasional lightning flashes blinded her. 
She finally reached the station at Moingona in time to stop 
the Chicago and Northwestern passenger train. Returning 
with a rescuing party on an engine, she also succeeded in 
saving the drowning men. 

The state of Iowa, through its legislature, recognized 
the remarkable bravery of the act by presenting her a gold 
medal ; and a passenger on the rescued train. Dr. Henry D. 
Coggeswell of San Francisco, dedicated to her a monument 
in Dubuque. 

177 



In May 1890, through the efforts of the Chicago Tri- 
bune, something over nine hundred dollars was raised by 
popular subscription and presented to Kate Shelley, who 
was thus enabled to lift a mortgage on the Shelley farm. 

For three years preceding that eventful night Kate 
Shelley, b}^ the accidental deaths of her father and brother, 
was compelled to do the rough work of the farm — the 
plowing and planting, — and at the same time she was 
encouraging her younger sisters and brother in their school 
work and doing what she could for her own education. 



THE HERMES AT OLYMPIA 

The Hermes of Praxiteles was found embedded in a 
thick deposit of clay in the cella of the Heraeon, the oldest 
temple at Olympia and sacred to Hera, or Juno. He is 
supporting on his left arm the infant Dionysos, or Bacchus, 
and in his right hand, which has been restored, he is sup- 
posed to be holding either the caduceus or a cluster of 
grapes, to amuse his charge, the young god of wine. 



THE BRONZE HORSES OF ST, MARK'S 

They are supposed originally to have adorned the 
triumphal Arch of Nero, and afterwards that of Trajan. 
Constantine sent them to Constantinople, and on the con- 
quest of the city the Doge Dandolo brought them to Ven- 
ice in 1204. In 1797 they were carried by Napoleon to 
Paris, and in 181 5 they were restored to their former place 
by Emperor Francis of Austria. 

178 



LORD RANDOLPH CHURCHILL 

A dog more familiarly known as " Randy," and now 
alas ! departed this life, was a pug belonging to Professor 
Edward Dowden of Trinity College, Dublin, who in poli- 
tics is a Liberal Unionist. " Randy" had been taught, at 
the word Parnell, to turn his head contemptuously away 
from a juicy piece of roast ; but at the sound of Balfour's 
name he snapped it up in the twinkling of an eye. 



" TO-DAY FOR ME, TO-MORROW DEATH FOR 
YOU'' 

From the Century Magazine^ April 1896 

Red Horse Hotel, Stratford-on-Avon, \ 

December 22, 1894. \ 

My Dear Sir : I have now the pleasure to reply more 
fully to your inquiries respecting the opening of the ancient 
charnel-house of Stratford church. 

On the morning of December 4, 1880, I was in the 
company of my friend, Alderman James Cox, J. P., then 
mayor of Stratford-on-Avon, when we were informed that 
the charnel-house had been opened ; we at once walked 
together to the churchyard to see what was going on there, 
and witnessed what we considered an extraordinary pro- 
ceeding. The vault had been opened, and appeared to be 
filled with a solid mass of human bones, through which a 
man was engaged in cutting a channel and throwing out 
the bones, which were being removed by another man for 
burial in another part of the churchyard. We had not 
stood there many minutes before a skull much whiter than 

179 



the others was thrown out at our feet. This was picked 
up by Mr. Cox, and we at once noticed the inscription 
painted across the forehead : ''Hodie mihi, eras tibi." The 
skull was taken home by Mr. Cox and sent to the vicar, 
and remained in the church for a long time afterward ; 
and this can be vouched for by our parish clerk, Mr. 
William Butcher, with whom I have talked the matter 
over within the last few days. 

This charnel-house was a vault beneath the ancient 
sacristy of a more ancient church than the present one ; 
and when the chancel, or choir, was rebuilt by Dean Bal- 
shall in the year 1465 the sacristy was allowed to remain 
in connection with the church until it was pulled down in 
the year 1800, with the exception of the vault, which was 
arched over below the level of the churchyard ; and this 
vault extends to the chancel wall, which I think alone 
separates it from the Shakspere vault. As soon as the 
churchwardens heard that the charnel-house had been 
opened, they at once ordered it to be closed, so that it 
really was not uncovered many hours ; it was, however, 
seen by many Stratfordians, and I find that Mr. Savage, the 
secretary and librarian of the Birthplace, has a memoran- 
dum of the event in his private diary, and he was one who 
saw it open, like myself. Moreover, the newspapers of the 
time recorded the event fully, and I have a distinct recol- 
lection of a notice in the Stratford-on-Avon Herald ; and 
Mr. Savage tells me that he sent a copy of the Birming- 
ham Gazette to a friend at the time, which contained an 
account of Stratford church and the finding of the bones. 

There can be no doubt that the skull I have referred 

180 



^107 



to was removed from one of the altars in the church at the 
Reformation, and was then thrown into the charnel-house, 
which at that time had an opening into the church. I find 
it was customary for skulls with similar inscriptions to be 
placed on altars prior to that period. 

I trust I have been sufficiently explicit in my remarks, 
for I assure you that it gives me much pleasure to record 
an event so interesting to my native town ; and if it is 
necessary to strengthen my assertions, I may mention that 
I am now an alderman and have been twice mayor of this 
a:ncient borough. Yours faithfully, 

W. G. COLBOURNE. 

Horace S. Fiske, Esq., Chicago. 



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